How entertaining? ★★☆☆☆
Thought provoking? ★★☆☆☆ 9 January 2014
This article is a review of WORDS AND PICTURES.
Seen at the Toronto International Film Festival 2013. (For more information, click here.)
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“Be who you were,” Elspeth (Amy Brenneman) to Jack Marcus (Clive Owen)
The Wilhelm scream is less piercing than the cry emanating from WORDS AND PICTURES for awards glory. A drunk English teacher and a disabled French painter coming together at a wealthy prep school is as cringeworthy as you’d imagine. Making the endeavour just about watchable is the casting of Owen and Juliette Binoche. Both play annoying, fragile egotists. Normally a winsome duo, the script’s tantalising Oscar whisper must have been too great an allure. Director Fred Schepisi (ROXANNE) is better than this.
Comparing and contrasting immediately, the audience is shown their preparation for the coming day. Suffering from rheumatoid arthritis, Dina Delsanto (Binoche) needs help to dress. Jack Marcus (Owen) adds vodka to his coffee flask. Teaching John Updike to a supposedly elite class, already mostly holding university places, is not motivating the pupils. Bone deep professional malaise is the opposite of John Keating in DEAD POETS SOCIETY. A once acclaimed writer has morphed into an uninspired alcoholic educator. Passion for language still abides however. Owen’s bursts of enthusiasm barely distracts from a dodgy American accent. Binoche was allowed to keep her lilting speech, why not add faux-intellectual weight to Marcus by letting him be British?
The Wilhelm scream is less piercing than the cry emanating from WORDS AND PICTURES for awards glory. A drunk English teacher and a disabled French painter coming together at a wealthy prep school is as cringeworthy as you’d imagine. Making the endeavour just about watchable is the casting of Owen and Juliette Binoche. Both play annoying, fragile egotists. Normally a winsome duo, the script’s tantalising Oscar whisper must have been too great an allure. Director Fred Schepisi (ROXANNE) is better than this.
Comparing and contrasting immediately, the audience is shown their preparation for the coming day. Suffering from rheumatoid arthritis, Dina Delsanto (Binoche) needs help to dress. Jack Marcus (Owen) adds vodka to his coffee flask. Teaching John Updike to a supposedly elite class, already mostly holding university places, is not motivating the pupils. Bone deep professional malaise is the opposite of John Keating in DEAD POETS SOCIETY. A once acclaimed writer has morphed into an uninspired alcoholic educator. Passion for language still abides however. Owen’s bursts of enthusiasm barely distracts from a dodgy American accent. Binoche was allowed to keep her lilting speech, why not add faux-intellectual weight to Marcus by letting him be British?
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Allowing the school magazine to slide and not being published in years, puts Jack’s career on the line. Why does a school require a teacher to publish? Isn’t that the preserve of higher education? Marcus rediscovers his groove at the arrival of celebrated painter Delsanto. No longer able to walk without a crutch, or paint because of wrist inflammation, Dina becomes a teacher. WORDS AND PICTURES seems to be dissing the teaching profession, as a graveyard for former talents - which is actually quite shocking, until the sentimental finale averts such an accusation. Delsanto’s class is art honours and a rivalry emerges with Jack’s English honours equivalent: Which is the more valid form of expression, words or pictures? There is no puckish SCHOOL OF ROCK inventive argument presentation here. And more criminally, the grammar of cinema is not explored either. At least there is chemistry between Binoche and Owen. And Jack’s desperation takes the narrative down a darker than expected route.
Struggling to rekindle former glory was captured strikingly in WONDER BOYS. WORDS AND PICTURES starts the inspiration quest and then fudges illumination on the matter, opting for playing-to-the-cheap-seats meltdowns. Plus, is dedication to craft meant to excuse grating, solipsistic ticks? Maybe self-obsessed artists never go out of fashion? Over-egged acting appears unironic. All leading to a cop-out of a climax, seeped in leaden mawkishness while skipping profundity.
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